


The Heroines Foil a Plot

by TeamGwenee



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arya Suspects him of Attempted Poisoning, Brienne Wears a Gown That Isn't Blue, F/M, Fluff, Gendry Flirts With Arya, Humour, It Must be Destroyed, Varys - Freeform, regency au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-12 17:34:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28514265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeamGwenee/pseuds/TeamGwenee
Summary: A society ball is the ideal location to flirt, dance and scheme the night away!
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 25
Kudos: 141





	The Heroines Foil a Plot

“Do you prefer the velvet, or the muslin?” Mrs Lannister asked, running the stuff through her fingers. A faint crease formed between her eyes as she considered her choices. “I think the muslin.” she suggested uncertainly. 

“I prefer the velvet,” he said firmly.

Brienne sighed and rested her forehead lightly against the shelf. “I am such a fool,” she said mournfully.

“There is not  _ that _ much between the two,” Jaime hastened to assure her. “I just think the velvet is more durable. Have the muslin if you wish.”

“It is not the fabrics I speak of,” Brienne murmured. “It is this ball. What was I thinking, agreeing to go?” Brienne loathed to be the focus of attention, and as this was her first ball upon arriving in the neighbourhood, Mrs Stark had offered Brienne her husband’s hand for the first two dances, which she would be opening. 

Jaime squeezed his wife’s arm. “Because you and I both know you will regret it if you do not. Come now, it’s high time these good people had the pleasure of seeing my wife dance, although I understand any woman’s reluctance to dance and sit with Mr Stark.” He pounced upon a blue brocade worked with silver. “Now  _ this  _ pleases me.”

“Do you think that perhaps my gown should be a shade any other than blue, this time?” Brienne asked idly, gently tugging at her husband’s arm, pulling him away from the bolts of blue silk and blue satin and blue muslin, all blending together in various shades. Light and dark, soft and stiff, spotted and striped. Blue upon blue upon blue.

Jaime raised a bemused eyebrow. “Why ever would you want that?” 

“I do tire of blue, sometimes,” Brienne admitted. And very well she might. Her shoes were leather dyed blue, her pelisse a striped navy blue, buckled smartly beneath her left breast and a smart ruff peeping from the sharp v-collar. Her gloves were darker blue, matching the ribbon trim on her hat, and the pale blue printed cotton of her skirts emerged with each step. “As painful as that revelation must be to many, I am sure.”

“Only to one who matters,” Jaime said dolefully, almost offended by the suggestion his wife should prefer a different colour. 

Attentive as he was, he had advised on both his wife’s current attire and on the general bulk of her wedding clothes. The marriage of Miss Brienne Tarth to Mr Jaime Lannister esq. had seen a notable rise in the stakes of blue clothes dye. 

All his life, Jaime was intimately acquainted with one woman, and that was his sister. It never occurred to him that any woman would  _ not  _ have a colour that became a signature of his wardrobe. For his sister, it was the red of their family’s coat of arms, although she did have a partiality for green to match her celebrated eyes. Knowing his sister, Jaime supposed her preference for two colours as opposed to one to be an extravagance. 

Mrs Donyse’s had seen fine business on the announcement of the Stark ball, for it was common knowledge that the good woman’s establishment was  _ the _ place to procure garments outside of town. Mr and Mrs Lannisters had to squeeze and duck through bulging shelves and browsing shoppers, occasionally using a sharp elbow to make their way. 

“What is wrong with blue?” Jaime persisted.

“There is nothing wrong with it,” Brienne explained coolly. “But there are other colours that are equally lovely.” She halted before a bolt of a dusty velvet of pinkish scarlet. “What about this, perhaps made in a half robe with a silver satin underskirt?”

Jaime shrugged mulishly. It was pretty enough, he supposed. But it wasn’t blue. 

A bell tinkled as the door swung open, Mrs Stark and her two daughters stepping from the frosty streets into the overcrowded shop. Mrs Stark led her girls forward, stately and fine as ever in her bottle green pelisse, Miss Stark her miniature on dove grey. Miss Arya stood bright and bold in her red cape, messy strands of black hair peeping from beneath her straw bonnet. 

“Hells, hide me,” Jaime hissed, “Before the elder starts making doe eyes.”

“Mrs Lannister!”

The Lannisters spun round to see Mrs Stark beckoning towards them, to join herself and her daughters.

“Mrs Stark, Miss Stark, Miss Arya Stark,” Brienne said with a quick bob, which was reciprocated in turn. Jaime tilted his head, still sulking over the blue brocade.

Arya darted forward, her red cloak swishing about her legs, and grabbed Brienne’s arm.

“You must vouch for me, Brienne,” she said earnestly, “Mama wants to put me in pink! The most grotesque shade of pink you could imagine! I would look like a raspberry blancmange.” 

“Arya,” Miss Stark hissed, mortified at her sister’s lack of decorum. Mrs Stark simply smiled and rolled her eyes.

“You look delightful in that pink, dearest,” Mrs Stark purred. “A light shade of pink is perfectly suitable for a young girl of gentle birth, and is most flattering with dark hair.” 

“Can’t I have red?” Arya asked plaintively, clutching the folds of her cloak.

“A girl of your age should have soft shades,” Mrs Stark said firmly. “And you cannot have blue. We have already selected blue silk for your sister. No my dear, that spotted pink muslin will become you very well. It is pretty and youthful and a reasonable price. Some of this stuff comes at a dragon per yard, and lasts barely a wash. We will trim it with some lace.” Mrs Stark rested her hand upon a bolt of very stiff, very hideous floral vanilla lace. “Five inches wide around the hem and two around the sleeves.”

“Mama!” Arya protested.

Brienne felt she  _ had _ to speak up for her friend, when Jaime caught her eye and shot her a wink, for he had seen the smile on Mrs Stark’s lips and the spark in her eyes. Mrs Stark had left the days of pelting acorns and leaving worms in shoes long behind her, and she had to find some other way of satisfying her hunger for mischief. Brienne fell silent.

“I would think the pink would suit you very well, Miss Arya,” Jaime said solemnly, “Although I think lace would be too plain for such a ballgown alone. Might I suggest some bows around the hem, and large ones on the sleeves.”

Arya sighed in relief on seeing her mother nod to such a suggestion. “Now I know you are teasing me Mama,” she said firmly. “You would never inflict such horror on me. I would sooner go in a sack, then wear such an abomination!”

Jaime chuckled. “It may very well be a new fashion, one to rival the silks from Myr!”

“My gown is to be made of Myrish silk,” Miss Stark interjected, anxious to be a part of the conversation, to conjure a fond smile onto this handsome man’s face as easily as her sister did. 

“For a New Years Eve Ball?” Jaime asked sceptically. “Make sure you have a warm shawl.”

~

“I must commend you on escaping from the house,” Brienne called over her shoulder as Arya trotted by her side, the younger girl bouncing on the pretty dappled grey mare that had been assigned ‘her horse’ whenever she visited Maidenpool for a ride. “I would have thought you would be all caught up in helping with the ball. ‘Tis only a day away now.”

“Mama said I am better use to her out of the house than inside. If Robb and Bran had only known that making themselves a nuisance would excuse them from preparations, they would not have been so useful.” Arya smirked. “There are benefits in being the black sheep of the family.”

“I wouldn’t call you a black sheep,” Brienne insisted, “More a rough diamond.”

“However you describe it, I am an irritant,” Arya insisted. “Although one that must be endured. Mama said I am to be home for five, so I can greet our guests.”

“We will return to the house long before then,” Brienne assured Arya. “My ball gown is arriving at four, and I need to get a hold of it before Jaime has the chance to dye it blue. Or throw it to the pigs.”

~

Mr Edric Baratheon and Mr Gendry Baratheon arrived at Winterfell in the company of their tutor, Mr Varys Webbs. Sons of Robert Baratheon from his first marriage, and thus the sons of Mr Eddard Stark’s most bosom friend. Out of honour for the man who had been like a brother for him, Mr Stark had insisted on the entire family welcoming the boys to Winterfell. Handsome, wealthy and eminently eligible, Arya smelled a rat the moment Mama insisted that Arya paid more attention to her toilette beyond simply brushing her hair and wearing matching slippers. 

She had been spared the pink monstrosity, but the mint green ball gown with the red velvet trim was far more elegant than any other that had been inflicted on her, and even for this informal dinner Arya had been instructed to wear her hair  _ up.  _ Mama herself had supervised as Arya climbed into her spotted yellow muslin, and even leant her some pearled hairpins to complete the ensemble.

“Mama,” Arya said doubtfully, “You are not plotting anything, are you?”

Mrs Stark merely smiled. “I would not dare,” she said fondly. “I simply wish to make this a lovely visit for your father. He still grieves for Mr Baratheon, and he will be away to town soon enough for business. Some tedious affairs to do with Baratheon’s estate, which your father has been tasked with handling until the elder boys are twenty five. I can assure you, no machinations are meant.” Catelyn gently tucked a dark curl behind Arya’s ear. “But you are growing into a lovely young woman, and there may be more pleasure in the courtship game than you would suppose. A harmless flirtation is entirely innocent, as long as it goes no further than that. Even if it comes to nothing, you may find yourself enjoying being fawned upon by young men. Sansa certainly does.”

“Well,” Arya sniffed, “That’s  _ Sansa _ .” Those two words alone poured boiling scorn upon the suggestion. “She may have both the gentleman and do with them as she pleases, I am sure they have nothing about them that could charm me. And I am sure they will want nothing to do with  _ me _ , when Sansa is on offer.” 

Mr Edric Baratheon, Arya was forced to concede, proved an entirely charming and friendly young man, happy to flirt with either of the sisters. Mr Gendry Baratheon was another matter entirely. He scowled over dinner and stood dour and brooding in the corner. Arya had spied her mother watching him anxiously, fearful that she had failed as hostess, and for that crime Arya could not forgive him. So very different to Mr Edric Baratheon, who was more than happy to exert himself in pleasing the daughters of his host, as his tutor sat hunched over a table of documents with Mr Stark. Either of the daughters. So happy in fact, that Sansa for once was confronted with the need to compete with her sister.

“Your hair is most charmingly arranged tonight, Miss Arya,” Mr Edric Baratheon noted. “And the pearls are very becoming.”

“It is a miracle that half the peals have not yet fallen out, nor her muslin torn,” Sansa trilled, laughing uneasily. “You would not think it, Mr Baratheon, but our Arya runs quite savage most of the time.”

Arya knew her sister meant to cut her. And the poisonous looks her cousin Jon was sending her sister only proved it. But she felt no shame. She smoothed her skirts and tilted her chin.

“I do not ‘run savage’, so much,” she said daintily. “But I do like to be active. Riding, mostly, but I also like to fence.”

“Fence?” At last, Mr Gendry Baratheon spoke up. “You fence, Miss Arya?” 

“I have been studying for eight weeks now,” Arya said proudly. “With my dear friend, Mrs Lannister. She tells me I have become quite proficient.”

Arya had rather intended to shock. Instead, it was Mr Gendry Baratheon who proved shocking. Ignoring the elder Miss Stark entirely, he sat himself beside the younger sister, and fell into a long, deep conversation as to her practise. How long had she wished to study, how did the lessons first come about, did she prefer to defend, or attack?

Arya was surprised to find herself receiving such attention, especially when the sister who was commonly agreed to be superior in every way was sat beside her. 

The final shock came when time for bed arrived, and Arya was making to leave the room. Mr Gendry Baratheon caught her hand and begged of her the two first dances. 

“I do not care much to dance,” he admitted quietly, “But I know I cannot go the entire ball without, and I should much prefer to dance with you than any other girl.”

Red faced and flustered, aware that her sister was scowling and her mother was smiling and her father was glaring and her brothers were laughing, all she could do was nod her head, and rush from the room. Her mind all of a whirl, Arya hardly knew what to make of the entire situation. And then, like a wave of cold water swallowing her whole, realisation flooded her veins.

~

“Mr Baratheon wishes to poison me,” Arya announced to the Lannisters as Brienne passed her a slice of cake. “I am certain.”

Jaime and Tyrion exchanged smirks, as Brienne sighed and went about cutting her own slice. 

“Rather like you were certain when you thought Jaime was poisoning me,” she suggested patiently, having ceased to be surprised by the amount of poisoners Arya believed there was in the world. “Or when you thought the butcher was trying to poison your family because he claimed to have marked out a side beef especially for you?”

“He was very insistent,” Arya snapped. 

“He was trying to keep your family’s custom,” Brienne explained calmly. “He had a prize winning hock of ham that he claimed to have set aside specifically for us.”

Arya’s eyes narrowed at this news. She had conceded Mr Hobb was probably not a poisoner, but this tidbit had her deciding to keep an eye on him nonetheless. 

“Of course there was also the time you believed that Mrs Royce had murdered her husband and was fleeing with her jewels, when she was simply taking her jewellry box to have its clasp mended?” Tyrion put in.

“I think my favourite was when you believed Mr Cassel was planning to hang his own daughter, after you saw him pulling young Miss Beth to the oak on the green while carrying a length of rope,” Jaime added with a smirk. 

“You cannot deny it was suspicious,” Arya said truculently. “To whom would have believed all that rope was for a swing, and not a noose?”

“Most people would, I believe,” Tyrion said, sipping his tea. “Although with our father, the noose would have been more accurate,” he conceded. 

“Or what of when you thought that Mr Poole had buried his daughter in their flower garden because you saw him digging at dawn?” Brienne prodded.

Arya scowled at her cake. “You could not blame him if he did,” she mumbled darkly. “I will admit that one was wishful thinking.” She put down her plate sharply, crumbs flying onto the table. “Please try to understand this. All evening, Mr Gendry Baratheon sulked and scowled in the corner. The one time he tried to be polite, was when he was talking to me. He even asked me to dance! And yet at no point could he be exerted to be courteous to my mother or talk to my brothers. If he cared little for being polite, why would he talk to me, or ask me to dance?”

The Lannisters exchanged looks.

“Perhaps he likes you,” Brienne suggested gently, with more understanding for why Arya would struggle with the concept than her husband, who never knew what it was to be plain. “You are funny and lively and pretty and engaging-”

Arya waved a dismissive hand. “Sansa is prettier,” she insisted. “And she has spent the last ten years perfecting the art of being lively and engaging to young men.”

“Maybe he prefers a woman with unconventional tastes? I certainly did,” Jaime said warmly, placing a hand on his wife’s shoulder. 

That was entirely different. As far as Arya was concerned, Brienne was the most marvelous creature on the planet. Arya was just Arya.

No, it was certain to be a poisoning plot. The only question was, why would anyone mark Arya out for a poisoning, insignificant as she was? It made no sense. Unless...perhaps the poisoning was only meant for someone close to her.

“Father!” Arya exclaimed. “It is not me he means to poison at all, but Father. Papa is in charge of the elder Baratheons’ inheritance until they become twenty five. He leaves the day after the ball because he has some business regarding their estate. Whatever he plans to do, Mr Gendry Baratheon must wish to prevent.” She turned wide beseeching eyes to her friends, so earnest in her fear for her beloved papa that the Lannisters could not fail to agree, for her sake. “You must help me foil their plot,” she begged. “Please, we must not let anything happen to Papa!”

~

As groundless as Arya’s worries seemed to Brienne, Brienne had agreed to keep an eye on Mr Stark, a task made significantly easier due to the fact she was his partner for  the first two dances, and had been assigned to sit with him at dinner.

Far from her aunt’s eye, and light footed from years of fencing, the unfortunate Mrs Lannister surprised her neighbours by proving a most adept and graceful dancer. Her gown was as becoming as a gown could be on her, and the colour such a departure that for once, her homeliness fell into the background. 

Mrs Lannister’s dances with Mr Stark were immediately followed by a set with her own husband, who claimed her hand for a lively reel that won them general approbation from all assembled. Even though Jaime had been far from his usual composed self that evening, tripping and stumbling with alarming frequency, especially near food and drink, for the dance he had moved with startling precision and charm. And his wife, guided by his hand, proved more than equal to his skill, dancing with vigour and rhythm. 

Flushed from the dance and the heat and the press of the crowd, and above all the unexpected praise, Brienne ducked away to the glass double doors that had been opened onto the Stark’s sprawling garden. She had charged Jaime and Tyrion with keeping their promise to Arya while she momentarily gathered her breath.

As the frosty night’s air prickled at the skin, Brienne let out a silver puff of air. Smiling over the dark, shadowed gardens, she pondered on how such a night had turned out so pleasurably. When she had been young and growing up under her aunt’s care, she would never have thought that she would receive praise for her dancing, let alone with a man such as her husband as her partner.

Of course, she had never believed a man such as Mr Lannister could ever come to care for her as he did. She gazed ponderously at the clear sky, at the realms of stars, distant and near, twinkling down at her, and wondered which kindly fate had decided to send her into her husband’s arms.

In dwelling so deeply in her thoughts, she had nearly missed the silhouette of a quick-stepped, rotund man deftly disappearing into the shadows. And yet, by happy chance, she just caught sight of him. Something in his manner of walking, and the way he held his shoulders, put our heroine in mind of someone who did not wish to be followed. Gathering her skirts, Brienne descended down the stone steps, and followed. 

~

Arya thought it best if she spent the evening in Mr Gendry Baratheon’s presence. As promised, they danced the first two dances together, after which Mr Baratheon resolutely sat out on each set. Although Arya’s hand was asked for several times, the younger Miss Stark stayed stubbornly by Mr Baratheon’s side. 

She could feel the eyes of her family and neighbours upon her, words and speculations whispered behind gloved hands and glasses of wine, but Arya sharply informed herself that any embarrassment felt was worth it if it kept Mr Gendry Baratheon from harming her father. And the more eyes upon the suspected poisoner, the better. In favouring him so openly, Arya had made him a subject of interest. The young man would struggle indeed to find a moment to poison her father that night.

Not that he showed any signs of a plan being foiled. He was all things attentive and interested, more so than Arya had ever expected to find a man. And had Arya not known what she knew, she would almost have been in some quite considerable danger.

~

Mr Jaime Lannister had a plot of his own, that evening. No poisoning was meant, but the death and destruction of one loathed enemy was the goal.

So far, he had been unsuccessful. In his attempts, he had poured port over Mrs Poole’s evening gown (ghastly and over-trimmed, it was no loss), claret over Mr Cassel’s waistcoat (an ancient, hideous thing, and in need of putting out of its misery), caused a rip in the train of Miss Jeyne Poole’s new lilac muslin, and set alight to Miss Sansa Stark’s blue Myrish silk. 

Four times. 

That was before the first dances had even begun. Each time, his beloved wife had escaped his attempts of destruction with such speed that could only be credited to her years of fencing. 

At dinner, however, crammed in around the table and unable to move, Jaime would have his chance.

He began to worry that he would miss this golden opportunity for disfigurement, for Brienne had returned from the garden with barely a minute to spare before dinner, red faced and panting, and was whisked away on Mr Stark’s arm before she had a moment to breathe. Several times she tried to address Mr Stark under her breath, but each time her words were lost to the din of music and chatter.

Due to a foolish and wretched tradition, Jaime was not seated next to his wife, but Mrs Stark had long learned that the only way for Mr Lannister to be a halfway tolerable guest, was to seat him within close reach of his wife. And so he was, barely an arm’s length from her. Elbows jostling, and table cluttered with drink and food, the moment was perfect. No one could blame a slight mishap on Jaime. Several times Mr Webb’s arm had knocked against Mr Stark’s bowl of soup. A spillage was certain to occur.

Although perhaps it would be better if his wife had her suspicions. Then she would see sense and not waste money on such a garment ever again. 

Stark’s soup was perfect, the rich red sauce thick and creamy and so near his wife. All it would take was one, swift movement, and it would go flying everywhere, drenching his wife in the beautiful, glorious mess.

Arm raised, Jaime was near seconds away from finally reaching his goal, only for his wife to beat him to it.

The bowel was upturned, the soup was sent flying. Sloshing over the table and splattering half the guests. Jumps and gaps of surprise echoed down the table, and pandemonium broke out as Brienne reached forward and grabbed a hold of Mr Vary’s Webb’s wrist, a trickle of soup sliding down her chin.

But on her gown, there was not a mark.

Damn. 

~

It soon transpired that Mr Varys Webb was under the employ of Robert Baratheon’s widow, Mrs Cersei Baratheon. Anxious as she was to secure the bulk of her late husband’s inheritance for herself and her children, it was her machinations that had led to the legal difficulties that Mr Stark was travelling to town the next day to address. Mr Webb assured the assembly that the dosage; which Brienne had seen him collect from a faceless stranger on following him to the end of the garden, was not strong and would certainly have not killed his esteemed host. Merely sickened him and left him too unwell to fulfil his duties for a few weeks, thus allowing Mrs Baratheon to scheme at leisure.

The response was that of general shock. From the Baratheons, naturally, that their jovial tutor should be so base and dishonest. From the Starks, that their beloved father’s health should be put at risk. From Arya’s friends, that one of her theories should almost turn out to be true, and most of all, from Miss Arya Stark herself.

Not only had her father very nearly been poisoned, Mr Gendry Baratheon had been the wrong culprit, and was entirely innocent in the affair. As such, she was left without choice but to realise that his attention to her was entirely in earnest. A revelation that filled her with discomfort and nearly struck her quite dumb, but not dumb enough to prevent her from suggesting to her father that when he travelled to town the next day with the Baratheons, that she joined him. Purely to safeguard him from anymore poisoning attempts, naturally.

Mrs Lannister was acclaimed as the heroine of the evening, and so delighted was he with his wife’s success, that Mr Lannister to forgo anymore attempts to destroy her scarlet and silver ball gown, even if it wasn’t blue.

Of course, that did not prevent him from ripping it off with all haste, on their return home. 


End file.
